London lite

Adele came in to work today to visit my favourite coworker/her videographer who is leaving on her US tour later this month - all expenses paid, plus a weekly allowance and all access passes to Bonnaroo. She was really chill and carrying the sort of Chanel handbag that's real but looks fake, something that Louis Vuitton has been specializing in since the early 00s.

I love all the celebrity sightings in Portobello. The paparazzi wear suits and carry telephoto lenses the length of my arm to train on Lily Allen and Helena Bonham Carter, Norman Cook and Ian Brown.

Kelly Rowland has come in a few times - on weekdays in sweatpants and a ponytail, on weekends with four inch heels, five inch extensions and two inch nails and lashes (for the cameras). Shaznay from All Saints was in twice last week for some casual clothes and Minnie Driver spilled her pregancy news as I helped her pick out some tunic-lenth tees.

It's easy to keep an eye out for the prime international targets, and the London daily rags are basically a flimsy paper Facebook of who to look out for in the market on weekends.

The market itself is a zoo. All the locals know to come on Fridays since tourists aren't told that it's open any day outside of Saturday. The antique books and prints and bric a brac have gouged a hole in my lunch money and I come back from my breaks with more skeleton keys and crane-shaped sewing scissors than egg-and-cress sandwiches.

As fun as weekends are, the security is also the toughest. We double our staff and the security guards are on high alert for the petty crooks and hustlers working on behalf of local gangs. The worst are the Spice Girls, a ring of 40+ immense black women in fluo spandex and fishnet monstrosities.

They come in pairs, usually with their kids in tow and a pram to stow their gear. They're exceedingly rough and ask obvious questions to distract the sales staff while the other stuffs racks full of clothing into the baby carriage. They favour all things shiny and metallic and use their children and their toothless mugs as deterrents to our protests.

The latest security guard, a tall, scrawny Nigerian who performs magic tricks during the lulls and chases children around the store, has had his pride wounded lately as stacks of clothing have gone missing while his back is turned. He's taken to hiding behind the racks near the side door so it looks like the store is empty, to lure the thieves in, wherein he will leap out from behind the clothes and nab them.

This week he caught the Spice Girls in the act near the back of the store, with some PVC skirts peeking out of their purses. When he confronted them, they lashed out and beat him loudly and roundly to the ground in front of the Saturday crowds. While one ripped at his shirt, another stole his watch and their diversion-tactic spawn kicked him in the shins. They made off before the police could even consider forging a path through the scrum of weekend shoppers.

After filing a report and accepting a shirt from the shop floor, he left and we haven't seen him since. It's sad because lately he's been on an apple kick for lunch - eating two or three at a time - and he left an entire grocery bag full of fruit near the fridge and we don't know what to do with it (or why he brought thirty apples with him that day in the first place).

Six degrees

Slow days at work can be measured in how many movie connections we make. There is a game that goes around the store where two seemingly unrelated actors are linked by the tenuous connection of costars in former feature films.

Today's surprise stumpers were "Former boy band members Mark Wahlberg and Justin Timberlake" and "Knighted actors Ian McKellen and Ben Kingsley." Inexplicably, almost every pairing this week crossed through a film starring Liv Tyler or Tom Cruise.


After the unforseeably arduous process of renting a place in East London, our lease was accepted today, which was some cause for celebration. Everything was finally coming together with Jo's finances sorted out and my payday coinciding with the afternoon that we needed to put down one-month upfront and six-weeks deposit.

Or would have coincided had I lived in Canada where pay is doled out every two weeks, rather than once a month. So the pittance that I have dutifully earned is not mine for the spending for another three weeks, including the minimum wage that I worked for to pay the rent and deposit so we could pick up the keys.

The people vs. the London Metropolitan Police

Spent the day with the Canadian High Commission and the Canadian embassy in Trafalgar Square trying to recover my stolen things (which were apprehended the night of the theft adnd promptly locked in evidence). The Metropolitan Police at Charing Cross, attempted to convince us of the following points:

1. My records aren't in the computer as I was only robbed a week ago (rather than three weeks past and reported within 24 hours)
2. A summons to collect my things is in the mail (and will be sent to my Canadian address in four to six weeks)
3. There is no record of any of my items being recovered
4. There is no record of any theft at the club in the past six months
5. The nightclub does not exist

Jo met me in town to pay our rent and damage deposit in Old Street so we can finally escape West London. Our appointment with the estate agent was at 530, so we left at 430 with plenty of time. When the bus arrived at Oxford Circus, we hopped on and settled into the air-conditioned main floor.

At that exact moment, there was a brutal stabbing two hundred metres away. Oxford Street was closed and we sat in the bus for forty minutes before finally realizing we weren't going anywhere except back to W12.

No avocados

Bright sunny morning in Angel. I unfurled myself from an unfamiliar couch following a late night reunion of the whole motley Canadian crew - a textiles designer, a hot mess and a colleague from our gallery im Gastown. A backyard barbecue, an incognito male model and a turntable stacked with house would be the overarching themes of the evening.

Enjoyed breakfast in the garden with my lovely hostess and reluctantly left the house wearing the previous night's all-black, goth-lite mini dress, tights and plimsolls.

My high school friend Jules was in town for the weekend, returning from a family vacation in Barcelona. We met Angel for milkshakes and burgers, and a sun dress so I could justify going to a picnic in a park rather than a scenester's funeral.

With little money to my name after the robbery, I was nervous about shopping in the pretty, boutique-lined high street but we cobbled together a £4 oversized pinney and hot pants affair and ventured into deepest Hackney.

Enjoyed too many apple sausages on the homemade coal barbecue in the sun at Victoria Park with the widest gamut of 24-inch waist East Londoners imaginable strewn across a variety of blankets on the vast expanse of lawn.

Having Jules around has been a saving grace. We spent an afternoon in Kensington drinking champagne and eating organic food near Hyde Park discussing steel drums and DJ sets, Japanese literature and charitable work. Between him and our Canadian family, I'm feeling happier and getting excited for my move to Brick Lane at the end of the week.

Jo and I found a sick apartment with hardwood floors, high ceilings, a vintage bathroom with tiled floors and an art store that would put Opus to shame around the corner. It costs more than my family's mortgage back in BC, which would make it a fair price for the cost of living and the gentrifying neighbourhood that we've been perving on for ages. All it needs are some signature pieces on the wall and a fully stocked wardrobe and I'm set to Settle for the summer.

Fabric

GET FAMILIAR

Switch, Surkin, Sinden, A Trak, Curses! and Jean Nipon at Fabric.

The place is massive and looks like a giant sewer. At any point Donatello and Rafael will jump out from behind a pillar in the drum and bass room looking for some pizza, dudes.

Don't try and drink there and definitely don't acknowledge any unknowns. One gentleman was dancing to minimal house like he was being born (in slow motion).

Curses! - Birthday Party Berlin DJ set